Pressure Cooker
by Senri
Summary: “Kira thinks people are like cattle. He thinks he can herd them, and slaughter them, and make them do as he wishes. Don’t you think?”


The room is close and sticky-hot. 

Raito idles, drowsy, listening to the low grumble of thunder overhead. He is too warm to think or do anything, and only floats in a diffuse cloud of irritation over his own disassociation from his work. L, as ever, hunches over his keyboard, chipping away at the twenty-ton Kira case – a good soldier. It rankles Raito to be outdone so, but at the same time he absolutely cannot bring himself to do anything more. The cuff around his wrist chafes and, absently, Raito forces it up against the bottom of his hand, turning and turning it until his skin glows red at the torture.

Thunder crackles again, as if God is tapping a microphone, getting the world's attention before he speaks. The storm is moving in fast – it must be right on top of them. L picks up his teacup again, spooning around the hypercaffeinated, hypersugared sludge that's left. Glare from the computer screen paints him stark black and white, his eyes slightly glassy, staring – a study in monochrome. Raito nods sleepily, drags himself awake again. It is a monumental effort, as if he's moving through molasses.

L slurps sugary goo and goes for the keyboard again. Three more words blink up on the screen before the power goes out – flatlines.

"Ah," says L. The dark is very sudden, and it muffles them, china pieces wrapped in thick velvet. Raito grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes and tries to stay alert. The chain jingles. "What now?" he asks thickly.

Raito can barely see L rocking but he can hear it, the squeaking of the chair, the soft ring of the chain. The detective is thinking. "There are back-up generators that should come on soon," he muses, "but it's late…" And Raito prays, prays, prays that this is it and they'll go to bed.

"I want a snack," L decides, and pops up. Raito must walk with him to the kitchen or be towed.

Cold air puffs from the fridge, a last breath. It is impossible to see anything but L has probably memorized the location of ever snack on the shelves and he shuffles plates easily, finally deciding on a piece of shortcake. The light is little better in the kitchen, and through the windows Raito can tell that the whole neighborhood has been knocked out. It is stifling to see it quieted so, and Raito keeps his eyes open until blobs of color pulse in his vision. He imagines his pupils wide as portholes, and thus the lightning almost blinds him when it strikes – but he does catch the stark contours of L's face, very close, one cheek distended with a mouthful of sweet. His eyes are huge and cavernous-set, dark and full of secrets. This is the terrible thing about L: the way he is always pushing, the insane tick-tick of numbers in his mind, building up to one conclusion: Kira.

Hate shivers in Raito's belly. With the ease of long practice, he suppresses it.

L swallows thickly, picks another bite off his cake. Raito listens to the click of L's teeth, the little gasps of breath he takes between bites, and feels a hard fist squeeze his heart. His eyes burn.

Another bite gone. "Cattle," L pronounces softly. It takes Raito a moment to parse this statement, to categorize it as something beyond the detective's usual nonsense, and he blinks. Emergency lights are shining somewhere and he can see L's intent black eyes gleaming. His skin looks dry and dull, the color of paper left too long in the sun. "Kira thinks people are like cattle. He thinks he can herd them, and slaughter them, and make them do as he wishes. Don't you think?"

And here it is: push, push, push, every moment of the day. Raito feels the accusations falling across him, a heavy mantle across his shoulders. His breath hitches roughly for a moment, and he hopes L doesn't notice.

The detective sips tea, watchful and mad as an owl. It is Raito's imagination that he can feel the whisper of L's breath, taste the sweetness laced in it, but it does not quell his hatred. The detective's jaw works slowly. He seems contented by the cake, placated utterly by it, tamed – bovine. Raito floats calmly on his stinging cloud of hate and it does not trouble him to say, "Yes."


End file.
